


the hero dies in this one

by anoddconstellationofthoughts



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Death, Depression, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Guardian Angels, Hydra, IronDad and SpiderSon, M/M, Memory Loss, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Panic Attacks, Religion, Sort Of, Soulmates, Temporary Character Death, They're all stupid, also he's stupid, and rewrote a lot of it, and that's that, basically i said fuck the mcu, i fuck w god, not anything compliant, peggy is tws, sorry about that, steve has a bad habit of dying, steve keeps dying and bucky keeps bringing him back, steve's just bad with his emotions, the whole lot, thorbruce, tony's just a concerned dad all the time, which is honestly a valid mood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoddconstellationofthoughts/pseuds/anoddconstellationofthoughts
Summary: Steve Rogers has never been a particularly religious man.He’s been to church, heard the stories, and lived the miracles, but the idea of a giant man living in the sky and choosing consequences for every action on Earth, or even just the concept of The Powers That Be has never done much for him. He knows too much, has heard too much, has seen too many horrors in his life to truly believe in God.So he doesn’t think much of it when the bridge collapses underneath him, sending him plummeting to the bottom of the ravine, the screams of his teammates chasing him a thousand feet down.steve's bad at staying alive. luckily, he's got someone watching over him.updates sporadically.





	1. Chapter 1

Steve Rogers has never been a particularly religious man.

He’s been to church, heard the stories, and lived the miracles, but the idea of a giant man living in the sky and choosing consequences for every action on Earth, or even just the concept of The Powers That Be has never done much for him. He’s kept up the façade for the benefit of The Role (as Captain America), but it’s exactly that: a façade. He knows too much, has heard too much, has seen too many horrors in his life to truly believe in God. 

So he doesn’t think much of it when the bridge collapses underneath him, sending him plummeting to the bottom of the ravine, the screams of his teammates chasing him a thousand feet down. 

 

He doesn’t think much of it when he wakes up on a soft bed in a bright room, clean, and comfortable, and unhurt. He doesn’t think much of it when a man in a flowy, white tunic with long hair and a beard softly touches his face, and whispers, “You have lived too much in this world, Steve Rogers. But it is not yet your time to rest.”

He doesn’t think much of it when the man taps a finger against his temple. Steve’s eyes close of their own accord and the whole world goes black.

 

Steve wakes up in his apartment in Brooklyn, disoriented and without the slightest idea how he got there. He sits up and grabs his phone. The welcome screen reads 9:02 am. He blinks at the date right below it.

It’s the day after he fell into the ravine.

He scrambles out of bed and hurriedly pulls off his clothes, dialing Sam’s number as he trips over himself to the bathroom.

“Hey man, what’s up?”

Steve stares into the floor length mirror. “What happened yesterday?”

Sam seems to hesitate. “We went to Bolivia to destroy another Hydra outpost; why?”

A fading bruise bleeds up the expanse of his back, pale lacerations and wide scars woven into the tapestry. His heart begins its mission to tear a hole in his chest. 

“No, no I mean like… what happened with me?”

As he watches, the bruise and scars fade, and soon there’s nothing but smooth golden skin in its place.  _ Shit. That’s never happened before. _

“Uhh,” this time Sam hesitates for real, “you mean when you fell off a crumbling bridge and I flew in and caught you?” 

No evidence of the bruise or its existence remains, but when Steve closes his eyes, he can still see it. “You caught me?”

The disbelief in his voice must offend Sam because the other man scoffs. “Yeah, I caught you. I’m more than just a pretty face and tight ass, y’know.” 

Steve’s heartbeat fades from his ears. Sam caught him. He didn’t die yesterday. It was all just a dream. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you are, Sam. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” Sam says, clearly puzzled, but genuine all the same. “Anything for a friend, y’know?” 

Steve nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

He wishes Sam a good day and hangs up. The bruise is gone, and the man in his dream was just a fabrication of his mind. It was nothing.

He clears his mind and goes on with the rest of his day. He does his best not to think much of it. 

 

The next time Steve dies is a Monday.

It’s a Monday, and he’s somewhere in the Middle East, ushering a group of refugees into one of Tony’s armored aircrafts. He picks up a little girl and hands her to her mother, who takes the child with tears in her eyes and stumbles on board. Screams and cries of pain and terror echo around them, the not-so-distant thundering of bombs and missiles closing in around them. 

Tony and Rhodey and Sam are in the air, doing their best to keep the missiles and drones and bullets from reaching the refugees. Something hits Tony and he drops, and Steve finds himself commanding everyone to stay in place, racing for him, racing for the spot where he knows Tony will hit the ground, the spot that Steve has to reach before Tony crashes, before–

Steve arrives just in time to break Tony’s fall.

The suit hits him like a comet from the sky. 

But Tony’s alive, so Steve doesn’t think much of it.

 

The room is just as bright as before. Blinding, but not enough to hurt his eyes. 

“Still,” a quiet voice commands.

Out of his peripheral, Steve sees the same man from before. He has his hands hovering over Steve’s arm, where the skin knits itself back together, burns fading. 

One of the man's hands, marbled and patchy with scars that disappear into his sleeve, flexes slightly as the arm finishes healing. Somewhere outside of himself, Steve realizes that the other hand doesn’t match.

Steve thinks he’s floating.

“You woke early,” the man murmurs, as though that answers all of Steve’s questions. “But it is not your time.”

“Please–” Steve’s voice cracks with the word. He’s not even sure what he’s asking for.

The man smiles sadly and cups Steve’s cheek in one hand. Without thinking about it, Steve melts into the touch. “Next time.”

Like the time before, he gently taps his index finger on Steve’s temple and the world goes dark.

But unlike the time before, Steve’s fading thought is that maybe, just maybe, he should think more about this than he has.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another chapter, another death :)

Steve wakes up on the quinjet on the way back to New York.

The team is scattered around the aircraft in varying degrees of exhaustion and pain. Tony sits across from Steve, expression guilty and worried, but morphing into a strained smirk when he notices Steve’s awake.

“How was the nap, gramps?”

Steve sits up and groans, more out of exhaustion than anything else. He glances at his arm, where the man from his dream _diedyoudied_ had healed him. The skin is new and pink, but other than that betrays no signs of the burns and gashes Steve knows they sustained. He looks up.

“Dandy,” he grumbles. “Just dandy.”

Stark winces.

“Hey, I, uh… I meant what I said earlier.”

At Steve’s blank stare, the other man elaborates.

“Thank you. For, uh, saving me. I know–”

“Hey,” Steve interrupts, “don’t worry about it. You would’ve done it for me.”

Tony’s eyebrows furrow. “Yeah, but you could’ve died, you _should’ve_ died, I mean–”

_I did._

The feeling of the bearded man’s calloused hand burns on his cheek.

“Look, Tony, it’s gonna take a lot more than that to kill me.” Steve shifts in his seat, trying to encourage the blood flow to his ass. “I’ve already healed. I’m fine.”

Tony looks unconvinced, but a glance at Steve’s arm, now its normal, soft gold, placates him. “Okay.”

They’re quiet for the rest of the ride.

 

When “next time” comes, it’s April.

It’s April, and the sun shines, the birds sing, the flowers bloom, and Steve creeps through a hallway in a metal bunker two hundred feet underground.

The recycled air clogs his lungs. He doesn’t think much of it.

It’s a simple recon mission: nothing complicated, nothing long. A quick pop in, pop out. Grab the bad guys and go.

Grab the bad guys and go.

“Go.”

The comms crackle with Nat’s command and Steve launches himself around the corner, shield raised, to find–

Nothing.

“Guys, there’s no one here.”

Sam’s voice sounds in his ear. “Yeah, my hallway’s empty, too.”

A wall of metal slams down behind Steve. He’s trapped.

“Uh, Tony–?”

“That wasn’t me, Cap. The system’s going haywire I don’t–”

Pale green-yellow gas begins gushing out of the vents near the ceiling.

Steve grits his teeth. “Fuck.”

No one says anything.

“Guys?”

Static crackles through the comms.

“Tony? Nat? Sam? Clint?”

Silence.

Steve holds his breath. The gas has quickly filled the small corridor, like flooding it with pea soup, and his eyes begin to water.

And then it fades, and the air goes back to its normal color, and Steve gasps for air.

Which is when he feels it.

His lungs are tight, his skin sagging, his eyesight blurring. His joints scream in pain, and Steve falls to the floor.

“Wha–”

Steve shakily holds the shield in front of him with wrinkled and liver-spotted hands, squinting at the faint reflection in its surface.

He just catches a glimpse of white hair before the world goes black.

 

The room is darker than it was last time.

The strange man’s slow, even breaths beat out a steady rhythm that echoes throughout the room. Steve turns his head to find the man slumped peacefully in the armchair beside him.

He’s beautiful.

His broad shoulders brushed by soft hair, his curved lips and strong jawline visible even underneath his beard, make Steve’s chest ache. He swallows. He’s known for a while that he likes both men and women, even made his peace with it. But this.

This kind of reaction is unprecedented.

Yet it’s so familiar.

It’s unprecedented  _especially_ since it’s so familiar.

The man’s blue eyes flutter open, and the room brightens a bit.

Steve wants to paint him.

“You’re awake.”

The man’s rough voice brings with it a sharp reminder, and Steve clenches his jaw, willing the urge to wrap himself up in the man to disappear.

“This is ‘next time.’”

Blue Eyes (as Steve decides to call him) tenses. “What?”

“Last time I came here, you said ‘next time.’” Steve narrows his eyes. “This is ‘next time.’”

Blue Eyes’ lips part slightly, and Steve forces himself not to stare at them.

“You’ve… you’ve never remembered before.”

_What?_

“What are you talking about?”

Blue Eyes licks his lips. Steve clenches his fist.

“I’ve died three times. Every time, I’ve woken up, you’ve been here, healed me, and then I go back.” Steve allows his Captain America voice to bleed through. “I want to know who you are and what the fuck is going on here.”

At some point, the other man’s apprehension had melted into wonder, a kind of reverence that makes Steve feel all sorts of things inside.

Blue Eyes leans forward, reaching out as if to cup Steve’s cheek, and Steve almost lets him, until he remembers what happened the last two times. He will _not_ be sent back until he has answers.

He grabs the man’s wrist, inches away Steve’s face. The emotion leaves Blue Eyes’ face and his lips set themselves into a hard line.

“Who _are_ you?”

Sadness seems to pool in the other man’s eyes.

“In life and death, Steve Rogers, you will always be my mission.”

Before Steve can respond, Blue Eyes brings his other hand around and taps Steve’s temple.

His eyes shut, and the darkness consumes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i touched on this briefly in the tags but this fic is gonna deal p heavily w death, depression, and a bit of an identity crisis in terms of memory loss and all of that, so be warned. also, when i say i "fuck w god" i'm really not joking. all will be revealed in its own time :)  
> come scream at me on [tumblr](https://anoddconstellationofthoughts.tumblr.com)  
> comments and kudos always know how to make a gal feel special xx


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> finally ! some answers !!

Steve wakes up on the quinjet again, back aching and joints stiff. He groans.

_In life and death, Steve Rogers, you will always be my mission._

Shit.

Clint glances at him wearily before going back to cleaning his bow from the floor beside him.

“You think Tony feels bad for all the grandpa jokes now?”

Steve huffs a laugh, examining his hands. A couple dark spots and white hairs remain, but they fade as he watches. “I doubt it.”

Tony struts in, eyes worried despite the presence of his trademark, shit-eating grin. “Yeah, if anything, I’d say I feel more validated now.”

“Thanks, Tones.”

“No problem, Grampy.”

Clint snorts.

Nat stalks over from the cockpit, tablet in hand. “Play nice, boys. The test results are in.”

Tony snatches the tablet from her and squints at the screen. “Oh, boy.”

“Test results?” Steve asks.

“Of the thing that… aged you,” Nat answers. “Rapid cell degeneration gas. Basically makes you old in a split second.”

Steve looks at his hands again, realization sloshing in the pit of his stomach. “Strong enough to overpower the serum.”

The quinjet itself seems to quiet. Clint whistles.

“Well,” Nat breaks the silence, “Steve was the only one to experience the gas, by either freak accident or design. My vote is that someone was surveying the building from a distance, trapped us all in different rooms, blocked our comms, and gassed Steve.” He winces at the phrasing and she shoots him an apologetic glance. “Which means we were set up.”

Stark bristles. “And do we know who would do that?”

Nat’s lips quirk to the side, and Steve finds himself mirroring the expression, already anxious for a fight. “I might have a few ideas.”

 

The boot comes back up and kicks Steve squarely in the face. His head flies back painfully, the crunch of bone and the stench of blood filling the air. Steve spits blood out of his mouth and smiles.

“I could do this all day.”

The agent snarls. “Tell me how many of you there are.”

Steve just stares him in the eye, fully aware of the gun on the table, the rope around his limbs, his own broken nose. “Don’t worry about it, kid.”

The agent’s eyes flicker to the gun when he notices Steve glancing at it. He picks it up and points it at Steve’s forehead. “ _Tell_ me.”

“Hm.” The throbbing pain between Steve’s eyes only grows with each second, but he needs to give the team time to hack the computers and the lab. He’s strong enough to take a couple hits. Besides, this kid can’t be more than 19. There’s fear in his eyes, and his hands are shaking. He won’t do it. “No.”

“ _Tell me_ ,” the agent repeats, bringing the gun closer to Steve’s head. “ _Now._ ”

Steve leans forward the small amount that his restraints allow and presses his forehead to the cold barrel of the gun. “Shoot me.”

There’s a breath of hesitation before the terror drains out of the agent’s eyes and he clenches his jaw. He exhales once.

And pulls the trigger.

 

The first thing Steve says when he wakes up is, “Y’know, you’re really shit at answers.”

Blue Eyes is seething. That’s a first. “Yeah, and you’re really shit at _staying alive_.”

Steve freezes. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”

Blue Eyes scoffs but makes no move to leave his chair. For no particular reason, Steve feels the familiar, deep-seated urge to defend himself against this man.

“But it’s only been four times, it’s not like–”

“Four?” Blue Eyes cuts him off incredulously. “ _Four_?”

_Uh oh._

“Steven Grant Rogers, did you really believe that this is only the _fourth_ fucking time you have died? You told that boy to shoot you and did not expect him to comply. And you think that was only the fourth? Are you fucking _shitting_ me?”

Blue Eyes had seen it, then. He knew how Steve had died. For the first time, it occurs to Steve that maybe, just maybe, God has something to do with this. But Blue Eyes looks more like Jesus, and Steve doesn’t remember neither God nor Jesus swearing this much in the Bible. Not that he paid much attention to it anyway.

“Are you really that obtuse? Did you just think that your funky lil’ super serum would just, I don’t know, make you _invincible_? Incapable of _death_?”

 _Well, yeah, so far_. But Steve doesn’t tell him that. Blue Eyes is on a roll. It’s kinda endearing, to be honest.

Steve swallows. But also information. He’s letting Blue Eyes talk because he needs information. Not because it’s creating some sort of weird nostalgia-inducing flutter in Steve’s chest. Not at all.

“Oh my God, you’re not even listening to me!”

So he uses “OMG.” That probably means Steve can safely eliminate God and Jesus from his list of Blue Eyes’ possible identities. Unfortunately, that was his whole list. Now he has to start over.

“No, I’m listening,” Steve protests belatedly.

Blue Eyes fumes, leaning back in his chair and scrubbing a hand over his face. “God, it’s like the fucking thirties all over again,” he mutters, “except you were partially deaf then, so you could get away with saying you didn’t hear me.”

Ice fills Steve’s veins. “What did you just say?”

Blue Eyes looks up, hand still on his face, eyes meeting Steve’s in a mixture of regret and terror and panic as he seems to realize what he just said. “Fuck.”

“ _What_ did you say?” Steve growls, sitting up in the bed and putting his hands up so he can keep Blue Eyes’ hands from his temples. He’s not leaving until he figures out what the _fuck_ is going on here. He says as much.

Blue Eyes’ laughs, though there’s no humor in it. “Oh, I don’t need to do that. It’s just nicer.”

Steve’s brows furrow. “What?”

“Bye, Stevie,” the other man smiles bitterly. Then he raises his hand and snaps his fingers.

Steve’s eyes close before the protest even leaves his mouth.

 

He wakes up, fuming, with a splitting headache, in his own bed for the first time since he first met Blue Eyes. Or, rather, the first time he _remembers_ meeting Blue Eyes.

_In life and death, Steve Rogers, you will always be my mission._

Well, fuck if that wasn’t cryptic. It doesn’t make any more sense now than it did the first time.

Steve wonders if that really was the first time Blue Eyes has used this line. Probably not.

He feels the ridged and sensitive ring of new skin on his forehead. The pain in his head begins to recede towards where the bullet entered (and exited, Steve realizes with a start), and then it’s gone. He’s healed.

_God, it’s like the fucking thirties all over again._

The same icy dread soaks into Steve’s bones all over again. He has no idea how to even approach that comment, and he can’t call Sam or Nat because they’ll immediately ask more questions.

He sighs and reaches for the tablet charging on his bed stand to check the mission logs and debriefs. His own medical report is the first thing to stare back at him: “Hit with blunt object–blunt trauma and broken nose resulted in temporary unconsciousness. No lasting effects.”

Something tells him he’s got a lot of catching up to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ehehehehe yes stevie you do  
> scream at me on [tumblr](https://anoddconstellationofthoughts.tumblr.com) or leave comments !! i crave feedback !!  
> special thanks to [a_static_world](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world), [justashotofdepresso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justashotofdepresso), and [GalaxyTrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyTrees) for helping me w this fic, especially bc i tend to ask for one thing or send a teeny snippet and then not elaborate. y'all are the best.  
> xx


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some talking, some fighting, some stupid fucking decisions,,,,,,  
> overall, just another day in the life :)

At this point, Steve and the ex-Winter Soldier should be old friends. All things considered, they are: you can’t mutually try to kill someone and track them across the world, then commit high treason for them in an effort to clear their name without forming some kind of bond. It’s impossible.

But every time they meet Steve sees Peggy in the Soldier’s place, sees her falling from the train into the snow-covered ravine below, and he fucks it up a little. Which is understandable, really, seeing as they briefly almost-dated, then lost each other, and found each other all over again and all of that, but it’s really getting old. Especially since they’re both trying to move on from their shared past.

But right now, Steve wants to talk about the past. His Smithsonian exhibit hadn’t revealed anything about Blue Eyes, who he was or might have been, so… Peggy.

“What do you want, Steve?”

He blinks and realizes he’s been zoned out at her table for the last minute or so. Peggy doesn’t look… concerned, per se, but there’s a flicker of worry in her brown eyes when he takes a second to respond.

“I, uh,” he hesitates, realizing for the first time that even though his trip to the Smithsonian was a bust, maybe she isn’t the best person to ask about this, given the fact that she still hasn’t regained all her memories in the two years since she left him on the bank of that river to die. She told him it was so his body would be easier to find, but Steve never believed it. He always had hope.

“You’re doing it again.”

He sighs in defeat. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

She just watches him from across the room, arms crossed and leaning against the kitchen island. 

His eye catch on her scarred forearms, pale lines tracing her bones where Hydra had laced them with metal reinforcements, and where Shuri had later opened them up again and done her best to replace them. Peggy might be one of the few people he knows who could take him in a fight with no weapons or assistance. She’s more than capable of killing him with a single blow. 

An idea hits him. It’s stupid, and reckless, and dangerous, but it could work. It could work.

“Hey, Pegs. Wanna spar?” 

 

Blue Eyes is ignoring him. Sitting in the white armchair next to the bed, but it’s turned parallel to the bed, so Blue Eyes can stare straight ahead, keeping Steve in his peripheral but not acknowledging him.

Steve sighs.

He woke up with a splitting headache again. This time, it radiates out from his right temple, where Peggy hit him. Unlike all the times before, Steve’s barely been healed, and he doesn’t seem to be healing any time soon.

It suddenly makes sense why Blue Eyes won’t look at him.

“Hey,” Steve says softly.

Blue Eyes doesn’t react. Just keeps staring ahead, gaze unwavering. Steve swallows.

“Why won’t you answer any of my questions?”

Silence.

Steve clears his throat, unsure of how to proceed. His headache seems to recede minutely, but not enough. He keeps his voice quiet.

“So, uh, I went to the Smithsonian, in the, uh, time since I last saw you. Because I remembered what you said about it being ‘like the thirties again,’ which I thought would mean that there’d be some sign of you there, y’know, in my exhibit…” he trails off, aware how strange it all sounds. But he figures that Blue Eyes already seems to know a lot about his life, so he’ll understand, regardless.

“But I couldn’t find anything. On you. On you even existing. If you did.” Steve crumples the blankets in his fists, bracing himself for what comes next. “So, I guess the next place to look was Peggy, but then I chickened out and figured that if I couldn’t talk to her,” her fist flying towards his temple flashes through his mind, “I could talk to you.” 

A single tear rolls down Blue Eyes’ cheek, and it throws Steve off guard enough that he feels a lump of his own growing in his throat.

“I just… I feel like I know you, and I can’t figure out why, and it’s driving me crazy. And you won’t tell me anything, despite saving my life every other week, somehow, against all logic or reasoning.” He swallows. “I don’t understand.”

Blue Eyes still doesn’t face him, but he sniffles softly and waves his hand a bit in Steve’s direction. Steve’s headache instantly dissolves, but barely registers the relief. 

Blue Eyes speaks quietly, his voice on the verge of breaking, and something deep inside Steve wants nothing more than to curl up in his arms and make everything better. 

“I don’t understand either.”

Steve waits. Ignores the unexplainable tears pushing at his eyes. There’s no reason either of them should be crying, yet they are. 

The other man takes a deep breath. “I’ve tried to tell you who I was before. The first few times you came here. But there was a physical block in my throat preventing it, so I never could. And it broke me a little.” 

A sprig of hope plants itself in Steve’s chest. “Can you now?”

Blue Eyes opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Disappointment firmly sets itself on top of the sprig and crushes it.

“It’s… okay. We’ll figure it out,” Steve reassures, not really sure who he’s saying it for.

Blue Eyes huffs a dark laugh. “I’ve been saving your life for almost ninety years, Steve Rogers, and I’ve never figured any of it out.”

Something painful moves in Steve’s chest. “What do you mean?”

“When I died, I was given a choice: move on or stay and protect you. I thought stay meant live.” He sighs with his whole body. “But it didn’t.”

_ In life and death, Steve Rogers, you will always be my mission. _

Realization hits Steve like a punch. “Oh.” 

Blue Eyes nods. “Oh.” 

“Wait,” Steve interjects, “‘given a choice’ by who? God?”

The bearded man tilts his head. “You don’t believe in God.”

“No, but…” Steve blushes. “I don’t know.” 

“I don’t either. I only remember it in the vaguest sense: it happened, and that’s it.”

Steve worries his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“So I watch life around you because I have nothing better to do in between your visits.”

Steve winces, thinking of all the things Blue Eyes must have seen. “That doesn’t sound… fun.”

“It’s not,” Blue Eyes agrees. “But I wouldn’t change my choice for the world.” He finally turns his head to look at Steve, who sinks back into the bed at the mix of sadness and anger and complete and utter  _ devotion _ in the other man’s eyes. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive, and it sure as hell isn't you.”

Steve can’t bring himself to respond. Even if he trusted himself to without crying, he doesn’t know what he would say. 

Blue Eyes stands up and moves to sit on the bed next to Steve. He places his hand on Steve’s cheek, cradling his face. Steve leans into it, trying to ignore how wildly his heart beats at the touch.

The other man gently brushes a thumb under Steve’s eye, where a tear threatens to spill over. 

“Get some rest, Stevie. You need it.”

And with that, the tear falls, and Blue Eyes presses his finger against Steve’s temple. 

His eyes close just as he commits the heartbroken expression on Blue Eyes’ face to memory, and stores it somewhere just left of his heart.

 

Peggy doesn’t speak when Steve wakes up, nor does she utter a word as she performs a cursory concussion check on him. She doesn’t say a thing while she helps him to the kitchen and makes him a pot of tea. She doesn’t need to: her silent anger is more than enough.

Steve sips his too-hot tea and decides he’d rather bite the bullet than let her silence break and her anger drown them both. She’s already killed him once today; it’s probably better for them both if she doesn’t do it again.

Steve takes a deep breath.

“I have something to tell you.” 

She doesn’t look up from the sugar she carefully spoons into her mug. “Would this have anything to do with you purposefully allowing me to punch you in the temple, your heart stopping for a full two minutes, and then you waking up dazed, but with no sign of any damage at all?”

Well. That’s pretty spot on. But–

“My heart stopped?”

Peggy swallowed a careful mouthful of tea. “Yes, Steve. I killed you.”

Steve huffed indignantly. “I know that, I just…” He trailed off, suddenly uneasy. “Why are you so calm about this?”

“I’m waiting to see if your explanation is enough for me to not kill you again, as punishment for your own stupidity.” She sets her mug down gently, and Steve immediately knows she’s lying. 

“What do you know that I don’t?” He demands.

She tilts her head, eyes unreadable and dark. “You first.”

Steve sighs, knowing she’ll never let him leave without his confession. He’ll be lucky if she lets him leave at all.

“Two months or so ago, I fell into a ravine during a mission. I hit the bottom,” Steve says, not missing her minute wince, “and died. I woke up in a white room with a strange man who told me I had lived a long life, but it was not yet my time. And then I woke up in my bed the next day, covered in bruises and scars that faded before my eyes. Sam said he’d caught me before I landed, but none of the evidence on my body or in my memory supported that.”

Peggy bites the inside of her cheek–an action Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen her do before. “But it’s what everyone else saw.”

“Yes.”

Peggy takes another sip of tea. “Go on.”

“I died three more times after that, excluding this time. All on missions, all unintended. Each time, the same man was there, and each time he healed me and sent me back home. I had injuries that matched the way I died, not what people thought happened. And sometimes those matched up but…”

“Sometimes they didn’t.”

Steve nods. “And I can’t die.”

Peggy doesn’t respond, and for a moment Steve thinks she’ll call him a liar. Tell him he’s delusional, insist he sees one of T’Challa’s doctors. His shoulders tense up, anticipating the blow when she opens her mouth to speak.

“Okay. So what now?”

Steve blinks. “What?”

“You let me kill you, Steve. I’m assuming you did it for a reason.” She raises an eyebrow. “So what now?”

“Aren’t…” Steve vaguely realizes that his tea has gone lukewarm in his hands, “aren’t you gonna ask what my reason is?”

“To talk to your mystery man and get some answers,” Peggy waves her hand dismissively. “Give me more credit than that, Steve. I know you well enough.”

“Oh.” Guilt bubbles up in his stomach. “Yeah, you do.”

She just nods and takes another sip of tea. 

Steve sinks back into his chair and takes a deep breath, cradling his mug to his chest. He’s so tired. God, he’s so tired. 

“So,” Peggy says once she’s had her fill of the silence. “Tell me about him.” 

Steve feels the corners of his mouth and eyes turn up in a smile as he begins to tell her everything he knows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet you weren't expecting _that_ when you saw pegs in the tags huh  
> theories?? give them for me to hold in my tiny raccoon hands  
> as always you can find me on [tumblr](https://anoddconstellationofthoughts.tumblr.com) just generally being a dumbass or leave comments here  
> xx


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a death, some old stuff, and the group chat

The fifth time Steve dies, it’s not his fault. 

He doesn’t ask for it, he doesn’t make a mistake, he doesn’t let it happen. Really.

He just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

So when the bomb explodes the bunker he’s in, Steve explodes along with it.

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve croaks as soon as he wakes up, tasting smoke and ash on his tongue. “For… for all of it.”

Blue Eye simply cards a hand through Steve’s hair, and the blond feels the ache between his ears dissolve. He sighs contentedly and closes his eyes. 

When he opens them, Blue Eyes is still there, the fingers of one hand interlaced with Steve’s, the other cupping them both. The scarred thumb gently strokes Steve’s hand, and Steve’s heart screams for something that feels like coming home.

He looks up to find Blue Eyes gazing at him, sadly, intently. It feels like something has carved into his heart, not to take, but just so Steve can feel the divide.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Blue Eyes cuts him off. 

“I can’t tell you any more.”

The ache in his chest sets in. “What?”

Blue Eyes looks back down at their hands. “I’ve told you too much. Any more and… well, I don’t know what would happen, but it wouldn’t be good.”

“What?” Steve repeats. “How do you know?”

Blue Eyes just raises his eyebrows, as if to say,  _ That’s exactly the kind of question I can’t answer. _

Steve swallows, trying to push down the pain behind his sternum that the ache has become. Tears force themselves towards his eyes, though he’s not quite sure why. It’s not as if he’s truly losing anything here. Blue Eyes didn’t tell him that much to begin with. 

So why does this feel so much like a goodbye?

Blue Eyes kneels down beside Steve’s bed, seemingly unaware of how fast the other man’s heart starts to beat at the movement. He takes the scarred hand and uses it to wipe Steve’s cheek, the skin rough and uneven, but wholly comforting all the same. He leans in and holds his mouth a hair's breadth away from Steve’s ear.

“You’ll figure it out,” he whispers, “I promise.”

With that, he leans back and presses his lips to Steve’s temple. 

Steve’s eyes roll back into his head, and he returns to the world with tears on his cheeks.

 

If he wakes up in his room back in DC and cries some more, no one has to know.

 

“Hey, Tony, I hate to ask this, but would your dad have kept any of my stuff from the war?”

Peter’s attention snaps over to them from his side of the table, and Tony’s shoulders stiffen immediately, though only by a fraction. The guilt is almost enough to make Steve turn back. 

But he needs this.

Tony turns his back to whatever project he’s working on now. “Sure, Cap, why do you ask?”

“I, um,” Steve swallows, honestly unsure of what to say next. He hadn’t planned this far ahead. He hadn’t planned at all. “Nostalgia?”

Tony blinks.

Slowly.

Tony never does anything slowly.

“Nostalgia?”

“Yeah,” Steve clears his throat and straightens his spine. “Pegs and I wanted to look through some stuff.”

Something in the smaller man’s expression softens, but the disbelief in his eyes doesn’t waver. “Well, that sounds like a lie to me, but I’ll figure it out eventually. Won’t I, Pete?”

The boy brightens. “You mean like that time you  _ eventually  _ figured out it was Ms. Potts’ birthday?”

Steve chuckles and Tony shoots an offended look in his direction. “Hey, now.”

“And you when you  _ eventually  _ figured out that Bruce and Thor were sleeping together after, like, a month of them trying to hide being gross around each other?”

Tony squawked. “Hey, no, okay, that one I was deliberately ignoring because I didn’t need that mental image. Also, respecting privacy, kid, jeez.”

Steve’s laugh escaped like a bark this time. The glee in Peter’s eyes must be contagious.

“And when you  _ eventually  _ figured out that Ms. Potts was getting sick in the mornings and craving weird pickle flavors because she was p–”

“Peter!”

The boy freezes, eyes wide with sudden panic. He and Stark stare at each other for a second before they both, slowly, turn to look at Steve.

Steve, who is biting both his lips to keep the grin from splitting his face in half. 

“Sorry,” Peter whispers.

“You,” Tony spins around and points a finger at him, “are not in trouble. But you,” he spins back around and points the same finger at Steve, “are to keep your mouth  _ shut _ .”

Peter sags in relief and Steve does his best impression of a cheap Captain America bobblehead.

“Great.” Tony pulls his StarkPhone out of his pocket, glances at it, and puts it back in. “FRIDAY, give Steve clearance to the storage unit where all of Dad’s stuff is and text him the address where it’s all held.” 

“Of course, Mr. Stark,” the ceiling responds. 

“Great. Thank you.” Tony returns to his project at the table behind him. Peter and Steve glance at each other but don’t move. 

“Okay,” Tony says after ignoring them for a minute. He slams down some kind of pipe onto the desk and spins back to face Steve yet again. “ _ What _ ?”

Steve smiles hopefully. “How far along?”

Tony sighs, throwing his head back and rolling his eyes. He scrubs a hand over his face. “Almost two and a half months.”

The blond makes a strange noise of excitement and leaps forward to wrap Tony in a hug. Peter edges forward and somehow gets pulled in, too.

Tony sighs and lets himself relax into it.

When Steve lets go, however, the Stark points a finger at him again. “Not. A word.”

Steve smiles wider than he has in a long time. “Promise.” 

He’s got Howard’s stuff, and Tony’s got a baby on the way. It’s not much, but things are looking up. Way up. 

Steve smiles to himself as he leaves the lab.  _ Maybe there is a God, after all. _

 

**To: Birds, Guns, and Patriotism**

**You:** Field trip?

**root n tooty point n shooty:** can’t, sorry, having tea w peggy

**flappy bird:** Damnit nat why am I never invited I wanna have tea w peggy

**root n tooty point n shooty:** we have scones too

**flappy bird:** shut up now I’m hungry

**You:** Sam I’ll buy you lunch if you’re in

**flappy bird:** hey I’m in man I’m always in you know that

**flappy bird:** lunch is just a bonus ;)

**You:** Thank you Sam. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.

**flappy bird:** :))))

**root n tooty point n shooty:** well if you two are done flirting i’m gonna go back to tea time now

**root n tooty point n shooty:** have a fun field trip 

**root n tooty point n shooty:** bring back souvenirs 

**You:** Always

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peggy occasionally hosts tea parties but her shared experiences with the assassin makes natasha the most common invitee. everyone else is jealous. peggy’s a badass.  
> come scream at me on [tumblr](https://anoddconstellationofthoughts.tumblr.com)  
> comments and kudos always know how to make a gal feel special xx


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh, look, a mildly healthy coping mechanism, for once. kind of.

Steve’s fist connects with the punching bag, skin splitting, blood smearing itself on the inside of the wraps Sam insisted he wear. It’ll only take a few more hits before the red seeps through the fabric and Sam notices, but Steve keeps going anyway. Sam can stow his caring,  _ let’s talk about it _ bullshit for now. Steve needs to hit something.

Howard’s belongings had revealed nothing.

Steve had told Sam to look for anything that had pictures of anyone, any identifying documents or items or  _ anything _ that would give Steve any clue who Blue Eyes could possibly be. 

He already knew they had history together; Blue Eyes’ comments and actions had made that clear enough. 

_ You’ll figure it out. I promise. _

Even just the memory of the other man’s lips against his temple makes Steve’s chest  _ ache _ , a sharp stabbing pain Steve’s become devastatingly familiar with since his de-icing. He’d just been starting to outgrow it, too.

So they must have been more than friends, right? There’s no other explanation as to why Steve feels the way he does. He felt the same when Peggy came back, and they were more than friends, as brief as it was. But this is worse.

God, it’s so much worse.

The hardest part of it, though, is that Steve’s alone. Besides Peggy, there’s no one else he can tell: the only Avenger who wouldn’t immediately tell him to see a psychiatrist is Thor, but sometimes conversations with Thor make Steve’s head hurt. He barely has enough understanding of his own planet; he’s not sure he’d survive trying to understand the others. 

So, for now, he’s alone. 

He’s alone.

A sharp crack reverberates from the bag and from Steve’s fist, ripping him from his reverie. He looks down at his own hands, stained red, one wrist beginning to swell. 

There’s no pain. He doesn’t think much of it.

Sam just leans against the padded wall and watches as Steve unwraps his knuckles and tosses the wraps into the garbage on his way out. 

 

Steve Rogers is predictable. 

He knows this. 

He works out when he’s upset or frustrated or angry. He makes bad decisions on the regular. He commands his team with authority but he will always do his best to hear them out when making decisions. He likes black coffee and burnt toast, even if that’s because that’s all he can make. He refuses to blindly follow orders and makes his own choices, even if he’s breaking the rules. He doesn’t like talking about his past. He used to go to art school, but he never,  _ ever _ draws or paints. 

Steve sets his wrist after he showers, allowing Sam to wrap and splint it. 

Then he asks FRIDAY to have some paints delivered to his floor in the tower and paints an empty guest room with the ghosts of his past. 

 

It takes him two days to cover all four walls. Two days, he doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep.

On the third day, he rests.

And then he starts another room.

 

Eight hours into the second room, Steve diverges from canon.

He paints a younger version of himself and a small dark-haired, blue-eyed boy playing together in a park.

He paints the same boy patching up young Steve’s knee.

He paints teenaged versions of the boys on a couch, pressed up against each other, a shared book in their laps.

He paints the dark-haired boy standing behind now grown up Steve and fixing his collar, both looking into the mirror.

He paints a hug between the two of them, Steve small, and frail, and heart-broken, the dark-haired man staring out from the wall, blue eyes deep and haunted though he puts on a brave face just for Steve.

The same blue eyes that watch Steve from all around the room, and maybe from beyond.

Steve sits down on the floor with an  _ oomph _ as all the air escapes his lungs. 

He stares at the blue-eyed man, and the blue-eyed man stares back.

They stay like that for a while.

 

His phone rings and Steve hears it for the first time in days. 

“Hi, Sam.” His voice sounds dry and hollow even to his own ears.

“Hey, man,” Sam says gently. “Can Nat and I come up?”

Steve nods before he remembers Sam can’t see him. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” The other man seems relieved. “See you in a few.”

“Okay,” Steve echoes. He gently places the phone on the floor next to him and resumes staring at the wall.

 

This is how Sam and Natasha find him.

He hears them enter the apartment but doesn’t react until they find the room he’s in. They both come to stand beside him, Nat resting a hand on his head and gently scraping her nails against his scalp, and Sam squeezing his shoulder. Steve melts under the touches.

They watch the blue-eyed man just as intently as Steve. 

“Is this what you’ve been doin’?” Sam asks. 

“No,” Steve swallows. “There’s another room. I’ve never really worked with paints before, so some of it’s messy but… it’s all more or less the same.”

Sam grunts. “Well. Color me impressed.”

Nat taps a finger against Steve’s skull in agreement and uses the other hand to gesture at Blue Eyes. “Who is he?” 

Steve takes a breath, trying to hide the ache that rises in his chest at the question. “I don’t know.” 

She combs her fingers through his hair reassuringly as he rests his head against the outside of her thigh. Sam’s hand tightens around his shoulder again. No one says a word.

When his eyes start to droop, he lets them lead him back to his room.

When he sleeps, he doesn’t dream.

 

Steve wakes up in a too-hot bed, still wearing his paint covered clothes, to the distant sound of Sam and Nat yelling at each other. 

“How long has he been up here, Sam?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Yes, I do, and I want to know  _ why _ you let him.”

Sam sighs. “He was goin’ through something. I wasn’t going to interrupt that.”

Natasha growls. “You saw those walls, right, Sam? You saw everything on them.”

“Yes.”

“Really? Did you notice when he finally started using  _ color _ ?”

“Yes.” Sam sounds tired.

“Then why did you let him go through it  _ alone _ ?”

Either Sam stays silent or Steve’s super soldier hearing can’t pick up what he says next.

“FRIDAY said he didn’t eat or sleep for two days, Sam.” Only now does Steve’s exhausted and malnourished brain pick up on how drained and desperate Nat’s voice is. “Why did you let him?”

“Some things you have to let run their own course,” Sam says. “None of us have any idea what Steve’s going through, and with FRIDAY monitoring him, he was safe. Not healthy,” he says quickly, no doubt cutting Nat off, “but safe. It was better to leave him alone.”

Steve looks towards the ceiling, mildly offended. “Were you monitoring me, FRIDAY?”

“Always, Captain Rogers.”

“Well, that’s comforting,” Steve mumbles. 

“I don’t tell them what you’re up to, Captain. Only when you’re in danger or if they ask.” The AI pauses. “I apologize if I’ve caused you any discomfort.”

Steve finds himself smiling, vaguely touched. “It’s okay, FRIDAY. You’re just doing your job.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she responds. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” 

Steve looks down at himself, swaddled in dark blue sheets and clothed in pain splattered sweats. He needs a shower and some fresh clothes, not to mention an entire buffet’s worth of food, but he does feel better. The crushing weight on his chest when he thinks of Blue Eyes that had plagued him while he painted had faded, now only a jar’s worth of pebbles, in place of a giant boulder. 

“Yeah,” he says, surprised to find himself telling the truth. “Me too.”

His stomach rumbles loudly. 

“There is Indian food in the kitchen,” FRIDAY says, somehow managing to convey the ghost of an amused tone, “should you want it.”

His stomach growls again.

“Yeah. Yeah, alright FRIDAY. Thank you. Again,” Steve says, feeling silly for thanking a robot so many times, but her warm response comforts him. 

“Of course, Captain. Any time.”

Steve rolls himself out of bed and makes his way towards the kitchen. Something tells him he’s got some explaining to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, steve. steve steve steve steve steve steve steve. he's doing his best, guys.  
> xx


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things get better, and then they don't.  
> y'know.  
> how they do.

“Hey,” Nat says upon seeing him. “He’s awake.”

She says it the same way she says “He’s alive” at the end of almost every mission: with a grudgingly impressed half-smile.

It’s a little forced, but Steve can tell she’s trying, and he loves her for it.

“Yeah, I, uh,” Steve looks down at his bare feet. “Yeah.”

Sam and Nat smile warmly at him, but there’s an undercurrent of concern that sets him on edge. 

His stomach growls.

Both his friends just raise their eyebrows and he laughs sheepishly. “Yeah, I should probably eat. 

Sam chuckles. “Probably?”

Natasha pulls a tin of chicken biryani out of the oven and throws some foil-wrapped naan down on the counter next to it. “Eat up, buddy. We gotta talk.”

 

Steve eats the biryani as fast as he can.

And the naan.

And the tandoori chicken.

And the palak paneer.

And the butter chicken.

And so on.

Nat and Sam just watch.

When he finishes he pushes the plate towards the middle of the kitchen island and plunks his head down on the table. “Hhrrruugghh.” 

Nat smirks. “Yeah?”

“ ‘m tired,” Steve mumbles.

Sam reaches out an arm and squeezes his bicep. “That’s something we gotta talk about, man.”

Steve’s shoulders stiffen. He knew that he’d have to tell them something, but now that it’s happening…

“I know,” Sam consoles. “You don’t _have_ to tell us anything. But it’d be nice if you did.”

Steve manages to peel his face off the countertop with another groan. Might as well.

“So the guy you saw on the walls is someone I’ve seen,” _careful, Rogers,_ “in my dreams, a lot, lately.” Steve rests his elbows on the counter and holds his chin in his hands. “And I guess I just… I can’t knock the feeling that I know him from somewhere. I _know_ him, and I can’t explain it and it’s driving me crazy, and I guess in one of my dreams he said something about knowing me in the thirties, so that’s why I asked you to help me go through Howard’s stuff, Sam, because I wanted to figure out who he was and–”

He takes a gulp of air and leans back in the bar stool. Both his friends watch him with carefully neutral expressions.

“I know it’s obsessive and weird, and he probably doesn’t, didn’t, exist, I don’t know. But you guys saw how I got when Peggy came back, y’know? I just,” he crosses his arms and shakes his head, “I _know him_.”

Natasha tilts her head slightly to the side.

“Well, you did love Peggy, right? So that justifies your response to her return…” Sam hedges.

Steve shakes his head again. “Yeah, and I think I loved him, too.”

Nat blinks and Sam exhales softly, echoing the shock Steve feels at himself for admitting that. 

“So where did those paintings come from? Something else in your dreams?”

“No,” Steve feels a blush creeping up his cheeks. “No, we only ever talk in my dreams. Those… those felt like memories. Those felt _right_.”

It’s the truth, but it seems to unsettle all three of them.

“So…” Nat trails off, hesitant. “What do we think this is?” 

Steve slumps forward on the counter again. “I don’t know. I don’t know why it’s affecting me so much, God, I _don’t know_.”

Nat slowly wraps an arm around his shoulders. “We’ll figure it out, Steve.” 

_You’ll figure it out. I promise._

Steve swallows. 

“Yeah. I hope.”

Same comes in on his other side and mirrors Nat’s position. They both squeeze him tightly and he lets out a shaky breath. 

"Keep this between us?" he asks, quietly. He feels Nat nod.

"Of course," Sam says.

Steve pretends the relief doesn't wash over him like aloe on burnt skin.

They eventually let him go, but not until he silently sheds a tear or two. 

 

At some point, the three of them migrate to the couch and resume cuddling. Nat puts on some show with brightly colored ponies and sparkles and ultra high pitched voices, but Steve doesn’t complain. It’s cute.

One and a half episodes in, Clint quietly walks into the room and brackets Natasha’s other side, while Lucky, his dog, plants himself firmly in Steve’s lap. Wanda comes in and sits on the floor between Clint and Nat, Vision beside her, Tony and Pepper stroll in with mounds of blankets in their arms, Peter near-invisible behind his own pile, Bruce and Thor with buckets of popcorn, Maria Hill and Rhodey sneaking in at the last moment. They all squish together on Steve’s massive couch watching the ponies fly and sing and dance and it’s the most peaceful Steve’s felt in a long time. 

Even if he does feel as though he’s missing something, some _one_ , he ignores it. That’s a problem for another day.

 

Steve goes on a mission a day or two later. 

Something flies at his face and without thinking, he reaches out and catches it.

He hears someone from behind him scream, “ _No!_ ” and then the grenade in his hand explodes.

Steve’s final thought before everything fades is that he’s starting to get real tired of being blown up. 

 

This time when Steve wakes up, Blue Eyes apologizes.

The words are muffled and spoken into the still-pink, new skin of Steve’s knuckles where the dark-haired man holds the hand to his mouth, but Steve hears them as if they’d been blasted into his ear by one of the speakers on Tony’s suit. 

“ _I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I_ –”

Steve clears his throat to signal that he’s awake, and the other man’s head shoots up.

His eyes are red, the skin around them swollen, and Steve hazards a guess that he saw the paintings. And what painting them did to Steve. 

Guilt begins to gather in his belly. 

Steve reaches over with the hand Blue Eyes isn’t holding and gently strokes his cheek. “You didn’t know I would take it so hard,” he soothes. “ _I_ didn’t know. It’s not your fault.” 

The pain carved on Blue Eyes’ face told Steve he believes otherwise, but Steve does his best to not think much of it. As much as he’d like to, crying right now wouldn’t help anyone, and Steve still has a mission to finish.

“Were they real? The paintings?” 

The questions are choppy and strangely phrased, but Blue Eyes seems to understand anyway. He gives Steve a fraction of a nod and clenches his jaw before leaning forward to press his lips to Steve’s forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and then Steve’s eyes close and he goes back to the real world.

 

Steve wakes up on a quinjet, yet again. His skin is still healing, but the burns fade under his gaze almost immediately. Footsteps echo loudly on the metal floor, and Steve looks up to see Tony stalking over towards him.

“Good. You’re awake,” he growls, planting his feet wide and crossing his arms over his chest. “Now, you wanna tell me what the _hell_ was going on in your head back there?”

_Oh, great._

“Catching a grenade? Really. Cap?” 

 _Ah. Yes. That._ Steve stays silent, waiting for Tony to fill him in on what else happened while Steve was out. 

“It exploded almost as soon as you threw it back, Steve.” Tony’s eyes start to well up, and dread fills Steve’s entire body, head to toe. 

“Your heart stopped for 96 seconds, Steve. _96 seconds_.”

For a moment, Steve could swear his heart stops again. He realizes that every Avenger in the room has turned their shocked eyes to face him. Apparently, Tony hadn’t clued them in before starting the fight. 

“What the _hell_?”

 _Yeah, probably time for you to start speaking, boyo_. Steve clears his throat.

“Uh, yeah. That happens. Sometimes.”

Nat’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Sometimes?” 

“Yes?” Steve nervously scans the room, only to be met with varying degrees of shock and… betrayal? “It’s not a big deal, though, I’m always fine.”

“‘Fine?’” Sam repeats. “You call your heart stopping for 96 seconds _fine_?” His face is one of the betrayed ones.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fu–_

Steve decides to redirect. “Tony, how do you even know this, anyway?”

“I put new chips in all your suits to let me know when you’re in critical conditions. Yours was damaged in the blast, so I didn’t get the notification until we’d boarded the ship.” He waves a screen in his hand. “96 seconds, Steve. You walked around with no heartbeat for 96 _fucking_ seconds.” 

_Oh. I didn’t know I could do that when I was out._

It takes him a moment to realize he’s spoken out loud. 

“‘Out?’” Nat echoes, voice suspiciously shaky. 

Steve puts his head in his hands and groans. “Damnit, Tony.”

 

Steve shuts up for the rest of the ride. He refuses to talk and stalks off the quinjet as soon as they arrive back at the tower. From there, Steve showers, changes out of the suit, and messages both T’Challa and Peggy to let them know he’s coming.

Tony tries to fight him, to get something out of him that will explain what just happened, but Nat and Sam hold him back. They trust Steve to come back and tell them eventually. Steve thinks that if he waits much longer they won’t give him much of a chance, but he’s grateful for the temporary reprieve. 

He has one last thing to do before he leaves, though.

 

An hour and a half later, a new image glistens in wet paint on a wall in the second room Steve painted during that last week. He takes a picture with his phone before gently closing the door behind him and leaving for Wakanda. 

This one he’s proud of. 

And he hopes Blue Eyes is too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so!!! there is art depicting that last painting of steve's, and it’s coming soon i promise  
> anyways, i have, as predicted, quickly run out of chapters to post so the posting schedule will be a little slower from here on out, but i will try to post one a week at the very least. thanks for being patient w me loves ♡  
> as always, leave comments n kudos for my lil raccoon hands (idk WHY that's the motif i'm goin w but fuck it i have a branding now) to hold n to keep  
> xx
> 
> edit!! you can find the picture [here](https://anoddconstellationofthoughts.tumblr.com/post/186168229637/an-hour-and-a-half-later-a-new-image-glistens-in) but erm keep in mind i really don't draw or paint people, so i could use a lil practice. but it's fiiineeeee  
> if you wanna do it better on your own please do so n send it to me i've backed myself into a corner guys let me out
> 
> edit edit!!!! the beautiful, wonderous [GalaxyTrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyTrees) made art for this! i embeded it at the end of the chapter which you can see above. pls go give her some love on her [tumblr](https://galaxytrees13.tumblr.com/). love you silv!!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an old (o l d) friend

Peggy greets Steve with a raised eyebrow and a steaming pot of tea. But she doesn’t ask any questions, which is really the best welcome Steve ever could have asked for.

Of course, she probably doesn’t ask because she’s expecting him to answer on his own, but all good things come with time, and so, time, Steve shall take. 

God, he’s so tired.

Steve’s well aware that he’s hiding at Peggy’s to avoid his teammates. He’d have to be blind not to see it, and even then it’d still be pretty obvious. He’d have to be _dead_ not to see it.

But that’s coming later. In the meantime, Steve requires a little peace and quiet for the research he has to do. 

Steve googles himself. 

He googles himself and everything and everyone that he has ever come into contact with, in the hopes that something or someone will have an idea or possibility that he’d missed.

It doesn’t take him long to realize that most of the links he clicks on are dedicated to various parts of his body or his obvious love affair with Peggy. And Tony. And Sam. And after accidentally clicking on several websites that account all of the, erm, _activities_ that he and Peggy and Tony and Sam obviously have to do, Steve decides the internet has nothing left to offer him. 

It is also overly concerned with what his heart wants and where his dick has been, so he considers it a loss on all fronts. 

Oops.

 

Steve goes back to the states where his cab is promptly t-boned by a drunk driver. He dies, visits Blue Eyes, and comes back. The man strokes Steve’s stubble affectionately, and Steve decides to grow his hair and beard out. 

The two things, of course, are unrelated.

Not that anyone really believes that.

 

Steve wanders Brooklyn for quite some time. His home has changed drastically in the time since before the second world war, but some things are the same, or vaguely similar, at least.

He finds himself on the corner of the block he lived in back before everything changed, before he tried and failed to enlist, before he took the serum that changed his life and body forever, yet left his mind untouched. 

He stares up at the building, trying to picture what it used to look like. It’s been modified, but the basic structure is still the same: flat and plain, with many old, cracked windows lining the walls.

For a while, that was home.

In a way, it still is. But something’s missing.

Something’s missing and Steve has no clue what.

He turns on his heel and walks away from the building, placing foot before foot until it’s long vanished from his sight. 

 

The grocer Steve used to work at is under the same name, the same family since he was a boy, but Steve recognizes nothing else about it. 

The girl whose cashier desk he chooses smiles warmly at him, the knowing twinkle in her eye comforting, despite the fact that she could only be 17. 

“My grandpa used to tell stories about you,” she says as he fumbles in his wallet for change. Steve nearly hurts his neck snapping his gaze up to meet hers. She laughs. “Said you were the most kind-hearted, stubborn kid there was, even if he was younger than you. My grandma just thought you were cute.”

Steve feels the tips of his ears burn. “Your grandparents?”

“Yeah. Danny and Ruth Frutcher.“

Recognition and excitement latch their claws into Steve. At the same time, a deep weight settles in the pit of his stomach. “Are they…?”

Her eyes avoid his as she collects his change. “Grandpa passed a few years ago. He was a fighter, but y’know…” She hands him the cash and sighs. “Only so much you can do against cancer.”

Steve’s throat constricts. 

“Paw Paw’s good though. She’s… she’s gettin’ there, being almost 100, y’know? But she’s doing well, all things considered.”

He nods. Something within him calms. The girl seems to notice this, and her face softens. “Would,” she swallows, “would you like to see her?”

The simple question strikes an odd chord in Steve. He finds himself unable to do anything but nod. 

The girl echoes the movement, and Steve finally notices her name tag. _Anna_. 

“Okay,” she clears her throat and gently pushes his bags towards him. “My lunch break is in ten minutes. I’ll meet you at one of the tables out front?” 

He just nods again. Takes the bags and tightens his fists around the handles as if he could quell all the emotions churning inside with the action. Anna notices this, too, but she doesn’t acknowledge it.

“See you in ten minutes, Mr. Rogers.” Her smile is encouraging. 

“See you,” he repeats, and somehow finds his way out the door.

 

In 1936, Steve Rogers was nineteen years old and he worked at Frutcher’s Grocery under Mr. and Mrs. Frutcher. Their only son, Danny, worked with Steve, as did his best friend, and later, girlfriend, Ruth. The Frutchers had other children, but they were too young to work in the store, so Steve never knew them. 

Danny and Ruth were younger by a few years, but Steve still considered them good friends. And apparently, a bit after Steve left, they gave up on waiting and got married. 

Steve’s happy for them, even if a spark of jealousy lights within him at the thought. 

He stamps the spark out and eats his sandwich. 

 

Within the next few minutes, Anna comes out, a paper bag in one hand and her phone in the other. She readjusts the purse on her shoulder and raises an eyebrow at Steve, who just looks at her. 

“You look a lot like she did when she was your age.”

Anna shrugs, but there’s a fond edge to her smile. “So I’ve been told.”

Steve chuckles and gathers his stuff. The sass comes straight from her grandma, there’s no doubt about that.

Anna takes him through an old door off to the side of the store and up the stairs, leading to the apartment above. Steve remembers it, though only vaguely, but a lot has changed since he’s last been here. 

She pauses only a moment before unlocking the door and gently opening it.

The apartment is different now than it was in the thirties, though the layout is more or less the same. A living room with a couch and several arm-chairs lies just ahead of the mudroom style area they step out into. The left wall of the mudroom opens up into a cozy kitchen, with other rooms and hallways beyond.

“Paw Paw? I’ve got a surprise for you.”

There’s a frail laugh from one of the arm-chairs, a comforting sound.

“Anna, you know you shouldn’t surprise a woman of my age. My heart might give out,” Ruth chides. 

A fond smile blooms across the girls face. “I don’t know, Paw Paw, I think you’ll like this one.”

She leads Steve forward into the living room, to where an old Chinese woman sits with a book. She looks up at him and her face immediately brightens. 

Even in her old age, Ruth’s broad smile warns of something mischievous. Steve had always considered himself to be slightly closer with Ruth, and looking at her now, he can remember why.

Danny was the calm before the storm.

Steve and Ruth were the storm themselves. 

Ruth’s still the storm, if the look on her face is anything to go in. Steve… well, Steve’s mostly just tired. He’s damn happy to see her though.

She chuckles and opens her arms for a hug, which Steve gratefully delivers, leaning down over the chair to reach her. She squeezes him as tightly as she can, and he does his best not to crush her in return. 

“Oh, Steve, darling, it‘s so good to see you.”

The lump forms in Steve’s throat immediately. “Yeah. You too.”

Anna looks back and forth between them. “I’m going out to lunch,” she declares, already heading for the door. “Have fun.” 

Steve pulls up one of the armchairs beside them and sits in it gingerly. 

“So,” he takes a deep breath, “I’ve been gone for a while. Mind catching me up?” 

Ruth chuckles. “It would be my pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so! ruth is chinese american, specifically cantonese. danny's family is jewish. neither of these things have any real importance towards the plot except for maybe a bit of steve's background, in terms of the groups of ppl he grew up around, but i'm cantonese and paw paw is what i call my maternal grandmother. so.  
> also??? i think tuesday updates may become a thing. who knows.  
> the drawing i mentioned last week is in the notes of chapter 7. i don't draw people. i'm so sorry. please outdo me with your beautiful, mystical, art skills so i can ignore how bad i am. thank you.  
> comments and kudos make my lil racoon heart v happy ♡  
> xx


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they catch up.  
> steve's not prepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not dead !!!!

When Steve left to join the army, Danny and Ruth were left alone to help Danny’s parents with the store. This was never a problem for the couple themselves; they were practically young adults after all. They were capable.

But in November of 1944, Ruth discovered she was pregnant with Danny’s baby. The younger children soon had to step up to help with the shop. 

The following February, Danny and Ruth finally wed. 

“It was a bit of a– well, I guess you could call it a ‘shotgun wedding,’” Ruth laughs. “Except _my_ father wasn’t the one holding the gun; it was _his_.” 

They married on the 18th, at Mr. and Mrs. Frutcher’s command. They didn’t have much, but they could at least celebrate it, Mrs. Frutcher had said. And so they did.

Because of Ruth’s status as an American citizen by birthright, they were able to apply for a marriage license. But she was forced to deny any connection to her parents or knowledge of their location due to the growing hysteria around Japanese and other Asian-American citizens and immigrants after the bombing of Pearl Harbor.

Steve grits his teeth. Ruth notices and places a hand on top of his, but keeps talking.

On July 9th, 1945, Anna Marie Frutcher was born. A perfect, almost 7-pound bowling ball of a baby. 

Ruths eyes well with tears, and suddenly it’s Steve holding _her_ hand.

On September 20th, just three months after her birth, Anna Marie died. 

“Pneumonia,” Ruth explains, crying freely now. “They didn’t have the sort of medicine back then that they do now. She got sick and we just… couldn’t save her.” Ruth’s thin shoulders shake, and for a moment she and Steve just sit together in silence. It feels as though their tightly clasped hands are the only thing keeping them tethered to the ground in this moment.

But then Ruth takes an uneven breath, pulls her hand away to wipe her tears, and pushes forward.

After Anna Marie, things were tough. 

But then again, they always were.

The cold war threw things into disarray, and the civil rights movement in the South kept chugging along. Business struggled for a bit, but eventually picked up again. 

The next babies came in 1952 when Ruth was 31. It was a bit late to be having children in that day and age, but the twins were healthy and happy and beautiful and Ruth had never been more grateful for anything in her life.

She named them Ava and Jacob. They were, and still are, the loves of her life.

“Now, Ava,” Ruth leans in conspiratorially, “is Anna’s mother, but you’d never know it. She’s off in California doing something with biodegradable plastics or marijuana, though I’m not quite sure which. But she’s terribly indecisive and quite docile, two traits Anna lacks. Anna’s more like me than anyone else in the family if we’re being honest.”

Steve chuckles. “And Jacob?”

“Nah,” she relaxes in her chair and waves a hand dismissively. “That boy’s Danny, all the way through. Reasonable, predictable, has a list for everything. He’s never deviated from the book a day in his life. Saved me a lot of trouble, I’ll admit.”

Danny owns Frutcher’s now, Ruth proudly states, and he and his wife and kids come in and check on her every once in a while. Anna lives with her and works part-time at the store to make money while she attends the local university. She’s studying biochemistry and will graduate within the year (Steve, ever the centenarian had misjudged her age by about seven years).

Something builds in Steve’s chest at Ruth’s obvious affection. “You seem to really love them.”

Ruth looks almost affronted at the suggestion that she  _wouldn’t_ love her children and grandchildren. “Well, yes, Steve, one would argue that that’s how parenthood and grandparenthood should work. My kids have both gone to do their own things in life, become their own people, but I’ll always love them. And so will Danny.”

Steve’s mouth tastes sour. He nods and tries to smile. 

“I wish I could’ve seen him.”

The old woman nods. “Me too, Steve.”

“I should’ve come back earlier.”

“Steve,” Ruth sighs, “you can’t change the past. You came when you did, and I’m happy about it. I’ve been worried about you.” She shifts her weight in the chair and takes his hand again. It does nothing to quell the acid swirling in his stomach. “How have you been?” 

He shrugs. “Okay.” 

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Steve crumples. 

He should talk because he knows it’s not good to bottle things up but he suddenly finds himself so desperately exhausted that he can’t bring himself to. Her fingers tighten around his and he folds forward, resting his forehead on their intertwined fingers, as everything just… rolls over him. The serum, Peggy’s fall, crashing the Valkyrie, waking up at SHIELD, the Battle for New York, finding the Winter Soldier, Ultron, finding _Peggy_ , the fight with Tony, making up with Tony, and everything else before, after, and in between roars between his ears, behind his eyes, screams tear his throat, bruises bloom on his knuckles, ribs, jaw, and Steve Rogers shakes, silently, as he lets himself cry for the first time in nearly 80 years. 

Ruth just cards her fingers through his hair and holds him until his tears run dry and his sobs slow. She holds him when his last droplets of energy group together and muster the strength to whisper, “I’m sorry,” into their hands, and she finally gathers his fractured pieces and wraps him in a hug. 

Captain America may be a hero, but in the end, he’s just a man.

 

Steve escapes to the teeny bathroom down the hall after Ruth releases him, in an attempt to freshen up a bit. The cold water he splashes on his face reduces the swelling and redness a bit, but he doesn’t think much about it. He already broke down in front of Ruth; nothing he does now will change that she’s already seen him cry. The “freshening up” is more for him, anyway. It’s been a long, long time since he’s cried like that. Or cried at all.

He feels good.

Balanced.

Strange.

His lifts his head to see the mirror, hands braced on either side of the sink. Bloodshot blue eyes meet his, but they’re not the ones he wants to see. 

God. He’s too tired to even bother with that train of thought. 

He takes a washcloth from the shelf to his right and dries his face. There’s no use in thinking about  _him_ right now. None at all. 

 

He returns to Ruth still in her chair, now with a rather heavy book in her lap. He glances at the open page. 

“Shakespeare?”

“‘Much Ado About Nothing,’” she smiles up at him, wrinkled face concerned but warm. “It’s my favorite.”

Steve lowers himself back into the armchair beside hers. “Never read it. I’m more of an adventure guy, myself.”

“Ah,” recognition blooms in Ruth’s dark eyes as they crinkle in the corners. “I remember. You and your friend read those Tolkien books together. You wouldn’t stop talking about them.” Her fond smile slides into a smirk. “Wouldn't stop talking about him, either.”

Steve’s brows furrow. “Who?”

The smirk slips. “You don’t remember him?”

“No?” Steve’s heart gears up, as if preparing to take off through his ribcage in a flight across the world. “Should I?”

“Well, I would think so, considering me and Danny thought you were in love with him, but–”

“ _What?_ ”

“You–” Ruth closes the book, “you don’t remember him?”

Steve’s heart throws itself against his ribs. Again. And again. And again.

“Ruth,” he near growls, forgetting himself in the full-blown panic he’s nearly achieved, “I don’t remember _who_?”

Her eyes are wide and scared, and for a moment, Steve fears he’s gone too far. 

“I– I don’t know,” she says shakily, “it’s been so long, I don’t remember his name.”

“Can you–” he takes a deep breath, “did you meet him? Can you describe him for me?”

She begins to shake her head, and Steve feels the walls of the apartment crashing down around him, crumbling plaster turning to dust and exposing brick behind it, filling the air, his nose, his lungs–

Something flickers in Ruth’s eyes and she opens her mouth. The apartment briefly pauses its self destruct. 

“Dark hair. Strong jaw.” She swallows.

“And blue eyes.”

The apartment is calm. Walls erect and covered in photos of a happy family and beautiful scenery. Chairs and pillows perfectly placed. Floor neatly vacuumed and air free of anything except the scent of a candle burning in the other room.

Ruth holds her breath as Steve finally gets the confirmation he’s needed all this time.

He’s not crazy.

At some point, during some time, Blue Eyes did exist.

And more importantly? 

He existed with _Steve_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some talking and !! a theory !!!

To say that Steve Rogers is a particularly calm man would be a lie.

Captain America, sure. That guy’s nothing if not reliable. If you need a clear head and a good opinion, you go to him.

Steve Rogers, however, is a jumbled mess of bi panic, PTSD, and a severe fight- _over_ -flight instinct. He’s a walking disaster in too-tight button-downs and khakis. If at any moment he were to flex too hard, a button might pop off and everything would come spilling out. This hypothetical situation would be a good metaphor for what he’s experiencing right now.

Blue Eyes was the flex. And Steve’s subsequent freak out is the result. 

 

Ruth watches him make tea with suspicion. He’d helped her to the small kitchen table and followed her directions to find the mugs and tea bags, then the milk and sugar. Outside, the rush of traffic drones on steadily in the sun. 

Steve’s hands shake as he places the mugs of water in the microwave. He hopes Ruth doesn’t see.

“Steve?”

Damnit. “Yeah.”

“What’s going on?” Ruth’s hands are folded in front of her, her expression one of distrust and concern. 

Steve weighs his options. He believes that Ruth doesn’t remember Blue Eyes’ name. Pursuing that route might do nothing but worry her even more.

But on the off chance that she _does_ know something…

“I have two kids and seven grandchildren, Steven. I’ll know if you lie.”

He sighs. “Yeah, alright.”

The microwave beeps, cueing Steve to remove the mugs and set them on the table. 

He pushes one toward Ruth and selects a bag of peach tea for himself. “So. What do you think about God?”

Ruth accepts the mug and takes a tea bag. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to respond to that.”

“Or just gods and religions in general. Do you believe in any of them?”

She plops the tea bag in and narrows her eyes, hands on the table as she leans in. “You show up for the first time in near 80 years, ask me to talk about my past, break down, forget your best friend in the world, immediately start acting strange, and now you want to talk about _God_?”

Steve pauses in the middle of stirring some sugar into his tea. “Best friend? In the _world_?”

She exhales sharply. “Goodness.” She relaxes in her chair and slowly brings the mug to her lips before taking a sip and setting it down. “Yes. Alright. God. Religion. It exists. What about it?”

“You think God exists?”

Ruth rolls her eyes. “I think something exists, and it might be God. Who am I to say?”

Steve blinks. That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. 

“Why, Steve?”

The response tumbles out before Steve can stop it. “I meet someone when I die.” 

Ruth freezes, mug inches from her face. “Come again?”

“I die,” Steve repeats, unable to control himself, “a lot. And when I do, I meet this man who matches the description of the guy you said was my… best friend. And he knows me but I don’t know him, except I _do_ , I just don’t remember him, and I painted some portraits onto the walls of my apartment and they felt like memories, but the thing is, I _don’t_ remember them, they just happened, and he can’t tell me anything, but I have to figure out who he is, Ruth, I have–” 

His hands are shaking. The rest of his body might be, too.

“Steve,” the old woman begins, face pale and slack, “you’ve _died_?”

Steve’s heart drops. “Yeah?”

She sets the mug down heavily. A bit of tea splashes over. “Oh, dear.”

Guilt floods Steve, the wave large enough to temporarily still his hands. “Oh, shit, sorry, I shouldn’t have told you that, no, you don’t need to worry, I’m fine,” he babbles, reaching out to hold her hands, “see? Just fine, untouched, I’m alright, really–”

She frees a hand to brush his cheek. “You’re crying again.”

The unspoken _you’re not alright_ hangs somberly in the air. Steve does his best to ignore it.

“I’m sorry, I–”

“Stop,” Ruth interrupts, blood returning to her face and determination hardening it. “Are you sure that you’ve died?”

“Yes,” he says, “My heartbeat stops and then comes back.”

Her mouth flattens into a line. “And you’re sure you’re alright? Physically?”

“He heals me completely. Every time.”

Ruth pulls her hand back to rest it on top of their still clasped hands. “He heals you.”

Steve’s response is annoyingly breathless. He finds he can’t help it. “Yes.”

She takes a deep breath. And then lets it out.

“Okay.”

Steve blinks. “Okay?”

Ruth nods. “Yes, okay. I believe you. Or, at least, I believe you believe you’re telling the truth.”

It’s not as warm an acceptance as Peggy gave, but then again, Peggy probably knows things that neither Steve nor Ruth know. Steve makes a mental note to follow up on that when he gets the chance. 

“Thank you,” he says. She nods and pats his hand before returning to her tea.

“So, how do you know that the man who saves you and the boy I’m talking about are one and the same?”

He shrugs helplessly. “It just feels right. I don’t know.” A thought occurs to him, and he digs in his pockets for his phone. “Here.”

She squints at the screen. A painting of Blue Eyes stares back at her.

Something loosens in her shoulders. “Yeah, that’s him.”

The relief hits Steve in the chest like a punch. It’s quickly followed by something else.

“What happened to him, Ruth? Why don’t I remember?”

The look she gives him features mild exasperation curled around the edges. “You do realize I’m almost a hundred years old, right boy?”

A blush creeps on his cheeks. “Yeah, alright. Sorry.” 

She shakes her head. “Don’t apologize. I guess I’m as good a person as any to ask.” Her lips twist up to the side. “He was drafted, I think. Was gone within a couple days of it. You were real broken up about it, too.”

Steve’s fingertips ache with a strange emptiness. “Then why don’t I remember it?”

Ruth’s gaze extends out past the window. “You were frozen for 70 years, Steve. Maybe you lost some of it then.” 

The explanation makes sense, but it sits uneasily in Steve’s lap. “Then why is there no public knowledge of it? If we were so close, y’know? The biographies and files are… endless.”

Ruth meets his eyes, and he sinks into his chair. “It’s like he never existed.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, “it is.”

They’re both quiet after that, Steve staring into his slowly cooling tea, and Ruth watching him carefully. He doesn’t look at her but even through his peripheral, he can see the worry etched between the lines of her face. He shouldn’t have told her. She doesn’t deserve to deal with his problems like this, she’s got enough to deal with, she’s got her own _life_. A life that Steve isn’t a part of anymore.

He shouldn’t have told her.

“What if someone tried to erase him?”

Steve’s heart trips and falls flat on its face. “What?”

“It’s like he never existed,” she repeats, “so what if that’s on purpose? What if someone’s trying to completely erase him from history? That would explain the lack of records but why I still remember him.” She frowns. “Still not sure why you don’t remember him, but–”

“Ruth,” he interrupts, heart still in the process of stumbling back to its feet and brushing off its knees, “you’re a genius.”

Her frown deepened. “I am?”

“Yes!” He stood up suddenly in his chair sending it tumbling to the floor. “Shit, sorry.”

Ruth looks at him, confused. “Steve–”

He hastily rights the chair. “Do you have a phone?”

“Yeah, over there.” She points to an old blackberry on the kitchen counter. “Why?”

“I–” Steve grabs it then just stares at it. “I don’t know how to use this.”

She chuckles. “Pen and paper by the knives.”

“Right!” He sets the phone down on the table and scribbles down a handful of numbers and his name. “My cell number. So you can reach me and I can reach you. Give it to Anna, too, just in case.” He thrusts the slip of paper at her. 

She takes it, amused, but wary. “Where are you going?”

He grins at her, the path before him almost clear for the first time since he came out of the ice. “I’m gonna get to the bottom of this.”

Ruth searches his eyes. “Steve, it was just an idea. You have no proof or way of knowing if it’s even plausible. Nothing’s concrete here!”

He shakes his head, eyes wild. “Nothing was concrete in the first place. This is _something_. I have to take it.” He leans over the small table to press a quick kiss to her forehead. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, grudgingly. “Come back and visit!”

He turns to look at her over his shoulder, already heading out the door as the corners of his mouth turn up. “I will. Call me!”

“I will,” she promises to his receding back. “Be safe.” 

He spins on his heel and nods his promise back.

They both know it’s one he’s unlikely to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m literally such a crackhead guys i didn’t notice the most OBVIOUS route for this story to go until after literally months of writing it cheezus  
> anyways!! what do y’all think? are steve and ruth right? lmk bc i Crave feedback  
> also this was Lightly edited so if there’s anything that requires immediate attention ty ily you have my heart


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> talking. a lot of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi. this is late. 
> 
>  
> 
> I have nothing to say for myself. 
> 
> love you all xx

The trip back to Stark Tower is uneventful. He decides to walk from Ruth’s Brooklyn home to Manhattan, a long and tedious trek that allows him to plan his speech in his head. 

_ Tony _ , he’ll say,  _ yes, my heart stops sometimes, but I always come back. I’m never permanently hurt. I’m sorry I scared you and that I didn’t tell you about it. I didn’t want to worry anyone. It’s probably just the serum doing weird things. I’m really sorry. _

And then, Tony will smile and say,  _ It’s okay, Steve, I understand. I forgive you. _

And they’ll laugh and hug and everything will be okay again. And when Steve says,  _ Hey, Tones, can you find every person who’s ever written anything about me biographically and find their sources? I wanna look at some things _ , Tony will happily agree and everything will be okay again. It’ll all work out.

It sounds stupid, even inside Steve’s exhausted, idealistic mind. He sighs.

The only friend he’s ever really fought with is Tony. The only friend he continually fights with is Tony. Besides maybe Blue Eyes, but that feels different. With Tony, he’s always worried he won’t be forgiven. Somehow, with Blue Eyes, that’s never a question.

_ God, this is getting ridiculous. _

From above him, someone smiles and whispers,  _ Darling, it’s  _ been _ ridiculous. _

The voice sounds like his mother’s. 

He exhales heavily and elects not to think much about it.

 

Outside of his mind, rain pours over New York City. 

It’d be incredibly poetic if he bothered to notice it at all.

 

The guards let him into the tower without betraying any surprise at his return, nor do they look as though they’ve been expecting him. Tony must not have clued them in.

For some reason, this observation warms Steve with hope. Just a tiny sliver of it, but enough. 

At this point, he’s willing to take what he can get.

 

He heads straight for Tony’s workshop. It doesn’t seem like there’s anyone else around.

FRIDAY doesn’t say a word.

 

“Oh look. He’s back.”

Steve sighs. “Tony–”

A thunderclap shakes the building, foundations and all. An apt metaphor for how this conversation will likely go, Steve thinks. 

Tony spares a glance at the ceiling before returning to the project before him. “You feelin’ better? Still dying?”

“...I guess.” Steve clenches his jaw.

“Ah,” Tony nods, tossing down a pair of pliers harder than strictly necessary. “Was wondering if that car crash got you.”

A burst of defensive anger lights Steve’s chest. “You were following me?”

“Keeping track of you,” Tony corrects.

Steve crosses his arms, clenching his jaw. “I don’t need you to–”

“Well, obviously that’s not true because in the four days you were gone you got hit by a truck and died,” Tony interrupts, slamming his hands down on the workbench, “and the fact that you came back doesn’t mean shit,  _ Cap _ .” He turns to face Steve, arms crossed over his chest. He looks so small, and angry, and… betrayed. 

Steve swallows. Shifts uneasily on his feet. “I’m sorry.”

“What am I supposed to do with ‘sorry,’ Steve?”

“I don’t know.”

Tony shakes his head, a small movement laced with disbelief and disappointment. “Yeah. Me neither.”

They both stand there for a moment: Tony, arms crossed and expression hurt yet annoyed in that incredibly Tony Stark-esque way; Steve unsure of how to fix it. He doesn’t know what else he could even say to Tony, short of flat-out telling him about Blue Eyes. And while Tony is one of his best friends, he’s not sure if he really wants to do that. He’s not sure Tony would believe him.

But he has to say something.

So he tells Tony. About dying over and over again, knowing he was dead and gone and undeniably so. And waking up with the same scars of how he died on his body, fading as he watches.

Tony’s eyes grow more and more devastated as Steve speaks. His jaw remains clenched.

Steve swallows. “I don’t know what else to say.” 

“I don’t know what else he needs to say, Tony. The deed is done.”

Both men jump in shock and whirl around to find Peggy leaning against the wall by the door that neither of them had noticed open.

She shrugs defensively. “Pepper let me in. I needed to get out of the house, so,” she spreads her hands out in front of her, “I’m here.”

Tony glares at the ceiling. “FRIDAY, come  _ on _ .” 

“Mrs. Potts told me she notified you.”

“Well, she didn’t!”

“Tony,” Peggy interrupts, “I know it’s not my place–”

“Then don’t say it.”

“–but Steve kept something from you, and now he’s told you. If you’d like to keep being mad, that’s fine, but realize you can’t expect anything else out of him.” 

Tony grits his teeth.

Steve doesn’t know if he should say something or not.

“Honestly,” Peggy continues, now reaching into her pocket to pull out her phone, not looking at either of them, “I don’t get what the big deal is. All of us have seen and been through some strange things over the course of our lives, right, and we deal with it.”

“Steve’s been dying!” Tony cries, apparently unable to listen to Peggy’s speech any longer. 

She looks up from the screen. “Only a little bit.”

“That’s not how it works!”

“Okay,” Steve cut in, “look, Tony, I’m sorry. You have a right to be upset. But I don’t know what else you want from me.”

“Stop dying,” Tony says immediately.

“I don’t know how–”

“No more missions until we figure this out. No more dangerous situations, or whatever, until we can gauge what’s making this happen and what we can do about it.”

“Tony.”

“No, Steve,” Tony shakes his head. “You’ve needed a break for a while anyway. Let me have this.” 

Steve glares a hole in the wall behind the smaller man’s head. “You’re not even the one dying.”

“You know what? You’re right,” Tony spits. “But apparently you’re the only one who doesn’t care!”

Steve jerks back like Tony had hit him. That is not the retort he was expecting. He looks to Peggy for support but she just shrugs and holds her hands up in surrender.

“He’s got a point, Steve.”

Steve sighs roughly and looks up at the ceiling. This is not going the way it was supposed to.

“Just… stay here for a bit. Okay?” Tony waves his hands helplessly at Steve’s glare but doesn’t back down. “Just in the city, where we can kind of keep an eye on you. Take some time.” 

Peggy raises an eyebrow. “Yes, because that worked out so well last time.”

Steve whirls on her. “Whose side are you even  _ on _ ?”

“Mine.”

Tony chokes on a laugh, before seemingly remembering the subject at hand. 

“Listen, we were there for him last time,” he protests. “Kinda.”

Steve narrows his eyes at Peggy. “How do you even know about that? I didn’t tell you.”

“Tash and I talk,” she supplies, if not a little defensively.

“ _ Tash _ ?” Tony and Steve repeat simultaneously. 

“Beetlejuice,”  _ Tash _ drawls walking through the door and standing next to Peggy. She points threateningly at the boys. “You’re not allowed to call me that.”

Tony scoffs. “I don’t want to. It’s stupid.”

Both women’s expressions instantly flip to death glares, and Tony mumbles out an apology. 

Peggy’s face smooths out, and she nudges Nat with her elbow. “Hello, dear.”

Nat softens, and she nudges the older woman back. “Hey, yourself.”

Steve blinks.

Tony mutters a quiet, “I still don’t get this.”

Peggy clears her throat. “So now that you two have made up, can we all move on with our lives?”

Steve and Tony look at each other, both thoroughly thrown off their rhythm. 

“Sure?” Tony answers. Steve nods, albeit hesitantly.

“Great.” Nat turns to face Peggy fully, and says with a hopeful tone, “Lunch?”

Peggy laughs. “After you, dear.”

Nat looks to Steve and smiles warmly. “Good to see you, Steve.”

He does his best to smile back. “You too.”

Peggy follows her out with a guiding hand on the small of her back.

Tony just shakes his head. “No idea when the fuck that happened.”

“Are they...?” Steve cockes his head.

“I don’t know,” Tony threw his hands in the air. “No one tells me anything in this goddamn house.”

Steve sucks in a breath and nods guiltily. Tony turns back to his project, and Steve takes this as his cue to head out. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the wonderful, incredible, mind-blowingly amazing [GalaxyTrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyTrees) made art for this fic!!! i embeded it at the end of chapter seven so we can all hopefully forget about the watercolor monstrosity i made. go tell her you love her on [tumblr](https://galaxytrees13.tumblr.com/)! she owns my heart and soul. 
> 
> xx mars


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what?? actual progression to the storyline and plot??? no way!!!!

Time-wise, it hasn’t been that long since Steve painted Blue Eyes on his apartment walls in Stark Tower.

Emotionally, it feels like two years.

There are still dirty dishes in the sink, and the rooms that had been painted remained untouched. Steve sighs and resigns himself to tidying up the best he can.

The dishes are clean in minutes. The rooms take a bit longer, but eventually, they’re done.

Now he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He’ll stay in New York for a while, to appease Tony but also because he’s just… tired. Granted, Steve’s been tired since, well, forever, but the past several months have weighed heavily on him. Between missions and dying every couple of weeks and Blue Eyes and just trying to pretend like nothing’s wrong, Steve’s completely burned out. He has been for longer than he’d like to think.

Maybe, when all this is over, he should see a therapist. That might be nice.

Steve’s phone buzzes from his pocket. It’s Peggy.

_ Can I come over? _

He texts back,  _ Just you? _

_ Yeah. _

He sighs.  _ OK _

_ 10 min. I’ll be up. _

 

Despite their past, Peggy and Steve have never been overly affectionate towards each other, nor are either of them openly affectionate people. Yet when Steve opens the door for her, Peggy pulls him in for a tight hug. He lets her.

It’s nice. 

“Sorry for bursting in on you and Tony earlier,” she says when she pulls away. “I would have done it regardless, but I could have warned you.”

Steve shakes his head dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”

She scrunches her nose at him but lets it slide. 

“I brought dinner? If you’re hungry.” She picked up a paper bag he hadn’t noticed by the door frame. “It’s just some stuff I grabbed from Whole Foods earlier, but we can order pizza too or something if you want.”

“Since when do you shop at Whole Foods?” Steve chuckles.

Peggy shrugs, almost bashfully. “I like their hot bars.”

Steve blinks.

“And the gourmet popcorn.”

She rolls her eyes at Steve’s surprised laugh. “Listen, I don’t have to prove myself to you, Steven.”

Steve lifts his hands placatingly. “And I’m not asking you too.” He reaches to take the bag from her. “Come on in.”

Several containers of mac and cheese and probably an entire salad bar later, they’re satiated. Peggy had complimented the design of the place, and Steve had promptly informed her he had absolutely nothing to do with it. They’d made some small talk about New York and what has changed, but for a large portion of the meal, they were silent. 

It was kind of nice. 

Eventually, they finish and clean up together, and then Steve microwaves them some tea, only laughing at Peggy’s scrunched nose as she judges him from the kitchen island. 

He places the cup in front of her and tosses her an assortment of tea bags, as though that will appease her. She sighs distastefully.

“Oh, uh,” Steve sits down beside her, “so I got back into contact with one of my friends from, uh, my childhood I guess.” 

Peggy cocks her head. “Oh?”

Steve takes a deep breath. “Yeah, and, uh, she remembers Blue Eyes.”

Peggy nods. 

“And she says we were best friends before the war. She doesn’t know what happened to him but… she thinks someone erased him from history.”

Peggy nods again.

“She doesn’t know any more than that.”

“Alright,” Peggy says, rather abruptly. She clears her throat. “I kind of figured it would be something like this but I had to check some things first, and I guess now I might as well tell you.”

A chill falls over Steve. “You  _ knew _ ?”

“No. Listen.”

Steve clenches his jaw and puts his hands in his lap. “I’m listening.”

Peggy sets her tea on the counter. “So I was one of Hydra’s toys for, oh, 70 years or so. Something like that. And during that time there were long periods of time in which I would be frozen. For storage and healing, that kind of thing.” She runs a hand through her hair. “During the process of cryofreeze, they slow down your heartbeat and all other vitals until there’s no movement: you’re frozen. Your blood doesn’t move, your brain sends no signals, but you’re not dead; just floating in limbo. You’re stuck. And… during this time I would dream.”

Steve feels a strange sense of realization and unease begin to dawn on him. 

“These dreams would always be in some white, nondescript room. There were no doors, no windows, only sometimes furniture, and always someone else. Usually, they were my most recent victim.” Peggy pauses to take a sip of tea, and swallows. If Steve knew any better, he would have thought he had seen her quiver. 

“And we would talk. As best as we could, sometimes there was a language barrier and that would make it rough, sometimes they would try to attack me, and sometimes they’d just cower in fear and cry. But always, at some point, they would calm, and I would explain that it wasn’t me, and that I was sorry, and that I’d do anything to take it back.” She shrugs. “Sometimes they’d believe me. Sometimes they wouldn’t. Either way, eventually I’d wake up and be reset and go off to another mission again.”

Steve realizes his jaw is still clenched and tries to loosen it. “So you’re saying-”

“Not done yet.”

He shuts his mouth. “Okay.”

“When I was The Winter Soldier,” she swallows after saying the name, “I would forget the dreams. But whenever I was frozen again and had another one, I’d remember. Sometimes I was frozen and had no dreams, but when I did, it was never the same person more than once.”

Steve’s stomach sinks. 

“I had quite honestly forgotten about them until you came to me and told me about Blue Eyes,” she admits, “but after that, I remembered most of them. And, well, I had a theory.”

Peggy leans forward toward Steve, but he doesn’t mirror the action. He’s still unsure of how to react. 

“All of the victims I dreamed about? Were kidnapped. None of them were murder victims. All were collected and taken to Hydra to have more information extracted out of them. None of them were killed and left on the scene of the crime.”

The pieces begin to fall into place. “They were frozen?”

Peggy nods. “After you left that day I contacted Natasha and she’s been helping me track down most of the victims. I remembered enough names and locations to find most of the records about them, especially with all of the Hydra files online. With a little extra tracking, I was able to match up timelines of my time frozen and theirs, and they all matched up. Hydra would freeze them between interrogations to heal them just enough and keep them alive without adding any risk to the situation. If we were frozen together, I would dream about them. I think it was some type of ‘unfinished business’ deal, to try to settle things before they died.”

Steve’s heart has begun to pick up pace. “So you think he’s frozen somewhere still. Because we have unfinished business.”

Peggy shrugs, grimacing. “It’s the most plausible solution, yes. I can’t promise you’ll find him, though.”

“Then…” Steve furrows his brows. “Why did you tell me?”

“You deserved to know. You deserve closure in all of this, Steve, and even if you don’t get it, it’s still nice to know that you tried.”

Steve sighs. “Well… thank you. For telling me.”

She makes a confused face. “Yeah. Of course.” She pauses. “You’re really not used to people being honest with you, are you?”

He shakes his head. “Guess not.”

“Well,” she takes a sip of tea, “are you going to ask me to help you find him or not?”

Steve starts. “What?”

Peggy smiles back at him. “Oh, Steve, I thought you’d never ask. Of course I’ll help you find your long lost friend. What else am I here for?”

He laughs shakily in disbelief. “Well then. Glad to have you aboard.”

She beams. “Perfect. When do we start?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello y'all i love all of you and yeah it's been a while  
> the last month or so has been insane for me as i'm sure it has been for a lot of you. so i'm hoping this finds you in good health and good spirits, and maybe even makes your day a little better.  
> scream at me in the comments or on [tumblr](https://anoddconstellationofthoughts.tumblr.com)  
> i know i tend to disappear for stretches of time but i'll do my best to here if any of you need to talk.   
> much love,  
> mars


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